


The Fair Folk

by shadownaga



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 21:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadownaga/pseuds/shadownaga
Summary: Harry takes a walk in the forest at night.





	The Fair Folk

The Forbidden Forest has not changed, not since that dark night first year nor the fateful one last year, when he died. The trees, still tall enough to tower and wide enough around that arms can't wrap around them, block out all but the smallest slivers of glimmering moonlight. Thick, dense leaf litter muffles Harry's footsteps as the shadows of branches flash across his face. A wandless  _ inlustro _ floats and wavers in front of him, bouncing around like an excited puppy as it flits from side to side of the path. He is far from the territory of the Acromantulas, and the Centaurs do not go here. They will not. They say it is not their land to walk upon, and Harry sees why.

There is another presence here, something intangible. Something powerful. It feels like it's in the air, thick and heavy, filling his lungs and seeping through his pores. This land belongs to  _ something _ . The trees seem closer here, their branches like long, outstretched limbs, waiting for him to walk into their grasp. He skips across a small creek, pauses, and bends to pick up a small stone, holes worn through by the current of the water. It is tucked into his pocket, and he's not quite sure why, but continues anyway. 

There are eyes in the bushes, blinking, peering. He dares not meet them. He's not sure they'd still be there if he tried. 

Ahead, the light is stronger, the trees curving like the arch of a doorway, and he stops on its stoop. A raised hill, a curved path of roots, a perfect circle of mushrooms and flowers.

It is dead silent, and he strains his ears, but he must be imagining the lively tune on the wind.

Some instinct guides his hand to the stone in his pocket, to his eye.

A crown of antlers, swirling skirts, dancing feet, sharp teeth. Overpowering goblets of wine, a speared and roasted deer. A beckoning hand. 

Harry remembers the late-night tales that Seamus had told them, cautionary stories of  _ the fair folk  _ that hide just out of sight.

So he says  _ no thank you, not tonight _ and  _ perhaps _ when another night is offered, and bids them a pleasant night, slipping the stone back into his pocket as he turns and leaves.

He doesn't dare look back until he's out of the forest, safely back on Hogwarts grounds.

But he leaves a bowl of milk by the castle door, just in case. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about faeries, sue me.


End file.
